People Are Racism's Best Lessons

PERSPECTIVE

October 15, 1992|by RANDY PADFIELD

Inside the tent it was completely dark. A few of us were still awake when the sound of footsteps and the rustling of the tent flap told us one of our classmates was returning from an off-duty privilege.

"Who goes there?" someone inside the tent called out, mimicking the tone of a guard.

"It's me, Bob. Who are you? My mother?"

Bob eased through the tent toward his bunk. He cursed once when his shin hit somebody's foot locker.

"Hey, somebody shine a light over here," he said.

Two or three flashlights clicked on. White spots swept across the 20-man tent's olive-drab canvas roof and found Bob slowly moving down the aisle between the two rows of cots.

"Hey, Bob, give us a big smile so we can see you," someone said. The lights converged on Bob's head, like spotlights in a theater. We all laughed.

Bob was the only black cadet in our squadron. But he was cool. He didn't mind the race-tinted jokes and usually retorted by calling us a bunch of "honkys" or something similar. We were all just razzing each other.

The laughter died quickly and we heard Bob's cot creak as he sat down. The flashlights clicked off and the tent seemed darker than before. We were all quiet as we waited for Bob's comeback.

But when he finally spoke, his voice was serious.

"You know, guys, that kind of thing really does bother me," he said. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say stuff like that."

This happened over 20 years ago, but the remembrance still shames me. Bob and I were good friends. We shared the same academic major and often were in the same classes. We went on off-duty privileges together. And for almost as long as I had known him, I'd been saying "stuff like that."

Yet I was glad Bob had the courage to speak up, that he felt close enough and trusted us enough to tell us how he really felt. I respected him for that. His words were spoken to us in friendship, not anger.

But he was laying it on the line, too. He was saying, "I'm black, you're white. Respect me for what I am, and I'll respect you." We accepted his request in friendship and honored it.

A year or so later, a black awareness club was formed at the Air Force Academy. Some white cadets had trouble understanding why the black cadets felt they needed their own club. Weren't we all just cadets? Didn't we all have to go through the same basic cadet training, the same "Hell's Half-Acre" obstacle course, the same POW camp and survival training?

Bob joined the club and I asked him why.

"Because there's a lot I can learn about being black from other blacks," he said. "It's not a `hate whites' group, but something to help us establish our own identity."

In the early '70s, the Air Force (and other services) started race relations classes to combat the racial problems that were occurring both inside and outside the military. The military services have always been a melting pot of Americans from many backgrounds and the pot is not without turmoil.

I attended the classes, as everyone had to, and read books by Afro-American authors. As a result, I gained a different perspective on what it's like to be black in white America.

More recently, I attended a prejudice reduction workshop by the National Coalition Building Institute, sponsored by the Bethlehem Baha'i Community. But what really made the classes, the books and the workshop meaningful to me was that incident in the tent.

How can we cure racism in this country?

It won't be by governmental law or decree. No great plan by the government or other interested organizations can succeed if we as individuals neglect to respond in our own ways as personal circumstances and opportunities permit.

I'm convinced the fundamental solution to racism is the common recognition of the oneness of mankind and the belief that the diversity of color, nationality and culture enhances the experiences of us all. Transformation of our whole nation ultimately depends on the change in character of individuals.

In September 1991, the USAFA Class of '71 held its 20th reunion. I hadn't seen Bob since we graduated. He'd put on weight and his hair was now gray like mine. I put my arm around his shoulders and proudly introduced him to my wife as the guy who taught me more about racial equality than all the classes I attended and books I read.

Bob looked at me blankly, then smiled. He remembered.

Sometimes it's the small things in one's life that make the biggest difference.